


Together, Always

by 365GoneRogue (beachboundandbemused)



Category: The Good Fight (TV), The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-1x10, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 18:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beachboundandbemused/pseuds/365GoneRogue
Summary: "It’s all so painfully familiar, a summary and a reminder of what he has been without. He’s missed this. He’s missed her. But maybe…" A continuation of the final scene between Kurt and Diane in Chaos, the season 1 finale of The Good Fight.





	Together, Always

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a chaotic post-episode-spewing of emotions/thoughts/ideas in response to a dear friend's own thoughts and, a few months down the road, I have now turned it into some semblance of a fic. I am admittedly rusty, however, so please forgive me!

She joins him inside but they don't make it to the fire.It starts with a locking of their eyes followed by a touching of their foreheads. And though his body is tired and sore, it’s slow and gentle, and it’s loving. It’s reconnecting. After, they lay there together under the covers of his bed, she at his side, he with one hand on her hip and the other in her hair. He kisses her forehead and she looks up with a hazy smirk, asking, “So what about that fire you promised me?”

 

Kurt lets out a puff of air looking down at her for a lingering moment with quirked lips before tossing the covers aside and sitting up, throwing his legs over the edge.

 

“No, no…” Diane laughs as she reaches out for him. “I was just kidding, really.”

 

“I know,” he leans back, placing his right hand on her thigh. “But a fire does sound nice, and I _did_ promise you one.” He has no intentions of breaking anymore promises to her, no matter the degree.

 

He leans back further yet and kisses her lips before pushing himself off of the bed, moving on to pull out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from his dresser. 

 

She watches his silhouette contentedly as he pulls on each garment and makes his way to the door. Just as he begins to turn around, she informs him softly, “I’ll be right out.”

 

With a brief nod and smile, Kurt exits the room, making his way to the den to start a fire. As he sits there on the edge of the stone hearth, waiting for the flames to take, he can’t help but think of the many nights the two spent here over the years, curled up, sometimes talking about life, politics, hopes, fears, other times simply enjoying each other’s presence. But before he is able to more fully immerse himself in his memories he is pulled back to reality by the sound of the stairs creaking as she pads down to join him. 

 

He looks up in time to see her complete the final steps, his heart skipping a beat at the sight. There she is before him again, standing tall (and _sexy as hell_ ) in his red and black checked flannel—her favorite flannel, the one that he has not been able to bring himself to wear in more than a year—with bared legs and feet. When she reaches him, she lets her fingers run through his hair as she stands over him, mindlessly playing with his locks as she watches the fire build. It’s all so painfully familiar, a summary and a reminder of what he has been without. He’s missed this. _Fuck_ , he’s missed _her._

 

But _maybe_ … He stops himself before he is able to finish the thought. He won’t allow himself to entertain it—not yet, at least—as he can’t bear to lose her again. And he cannot lose her if he does not have her [back]. Because he doesn’t. _Not yet._

 

Instead he looks into her eyes, which soften immediately. She understands. Part of it, at least—the missing it all. She brings her right hand to the side of his head, gently pulling him closer, his hair now tickling at her exposed thigh. She then brings her left hand to his hair as well, combs her fingers through it once, twice, three times, silently giving him comfort. She is, indeed, the injured party here, but she knows that he has hurt too.

 

After another glance at the fire he takes her right hand in his and turns his head to kiss her palm. “That should do it,” he says then. _He’s talking about the fire, of course_.

 

With only a moment’s hesitation he takes the hand she offers to help him up and, remaining hand in hand, they move to the leather sofa where there is both hope and hurt in how they proceed: She wordlessly moves to sit just right of center and he takes his queue, sitting to her left before pivoting to lie on his back towards the front of the cushions as she curls beside him on her side at the back, the then two entwining themselves, holding each other close. It’s all still so wonderfully easy, and there’s promise in that, but _how could he have jeopardized this all in the first place_?

 

“Here,” he says, pushing the thought away then reaching for the blanket on the back of the sofa and draping it over their bodies. “That good?”

 

“Yeah,” she nods, grasping at the edge of the wool material, pulling it to her chin.

 

He kisses her forehead and they settle into silence, letting the sound of crackling embers take over the room. They will talk soon, he knows. They must. But for tonight, they are simply together. 

 

He studies her in the quiet, rediscovers the little things that have grown cloudy in his memory as the past year has gone by: _the exact degree of the curve of her nose, the way her eyes flutter closed and then open again when she takes a deep breath, the way she’ll tap the three center fingers of her left hand against his collarbone sporadically_. As he does so though, his eyes become heavier and heavier. He wants to catalog every detail once more, preserving each one indefinitely just incase. But it has been a long day, and she _has_ chosen to stay. And while the night was all that was promised, _perhaps_ … He’s fighting a losing battle and his eyes soon drift closed as his breathing deepens, rapidly succumbing to sleep.

 

She’s soon startled by a rumble, a snore pulling her out of her own reverie. With this, she runs her thumb over the skin of his bicep once, right below the sleeve of his t-shirt, whispering a soft, “Kurt?” But when he does not even stir she breathes out deeply, considering for a moment, before settling more fully against him, pulling the blanket up an inch higher, and finally placing a gentle kiss below his ear where she can just reach. She too soon drifts off.

 

***

 

As the sun slowly coxes him into consciousness hours later, he begins to stretch his arms, only to discover that his left is restrained. He blinks open his eyes then and sees her there at his side, in his arms once more—truly a vision. A calm comes over him—it always has—as he watches her, as she lies there, breathing so peacefully, her fingers curled, lightly grasping at the front of his shirt, and her hair, splayed across his chest and in the cast of morning light, shimmering like a golden sea. Without thought he proceeds to bring a gentle hand to her face, pushing back the strands that cover her eyes in pursuit of a glimpse of her long lashes resting upon her cheek. As she inhales a deep breath and shifts against him though he quickly regrets his actions—he has managed to rouse her from her restful slumber—but her emerging sleepy smile puts him at ease again. 

 

“Good morning,” she says with a little hum as she flexes her muscles, soon peering up at him with lidded eyes and her smile remaining.

 

His lips curl in return by instinct and he moves to place a kiss to her forehead and then her lips before he responds in kind, “Good morning.”

 

She lets her eyes linger closed after he pulls away, breathing deeply of him. Upon finally opening them again she reaches up to stroke his cheek, guiding him back down so that their lips may unite once more. He does not protest and the kiss begins slowly. But as their bodies further awaken and as they move with one another—as his hand moves over her thigh, just under the hem of the flannel, and as her nails run lightly over his chest; as their tongues move skillfully together—their hearts beat faster and they begin to reposition themselves. She pushes up on her arm beneath her and he works to maneuver himself further back away from the edge. Soon though both find themselves groaning, and not from pleasure but rather discomfort—they are too old to spend the night on a couch like this, it seems.

 

“Oh,” she breathes, and, current wants forgotten, she pushes herself up to a sitting position, legs draped over his rather than rolling on top of him as she had intended. Neither is in prime condition for such activities here and now.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees with a short laugh that transmogrifies into grunt as he pushes himself slowly upward with both elbows, the strain evident in his features. 

 

Moving her neck side to side, hand in place on the right of it, she apologizes. “I’m sorry, I almost woke you last night but I didn’t have the heart.” And then, wryly, “It seems as though we’re both paying for my lack of judgement this morning.”

 

He freezes. As does she following his reaction. She did not at all mean it _like that—_ he can see it in her eyes—but the connection is striking. They both know damn well about paying for one’s lack of judgement. _His_ lack of judgement. 

 

In what is either denying that the line was intentional or an attempt to dispel the sudden heaviness of the moment (perhaps both), she shakes her head. “Anyway, here, let me give you some space to stretch. After what your body went though yesterday along with a night on the sofa, you’re sure to be in rough shape.”

 

She maneuvers herself over his legs and, once standing steadily on the floor, she begins to work her muscles as he looks on keenly. She moves each limb up, down, and around; she rolls her head; she rises up on her toes and holds for a moment before returning her heels to the floor. He’s always been mesmerized by the way she moves her body through space, so lithesome. He has missed that too. But before she turns around to witness his gaze he swings his legs over the edge of the cushions and begins to stretch himself, in place, finding that he is stiffer than he had initially thought. 

 

At the noises he emits her lips curl, and she leans in kissing him gently. “I’m going to make us breakfast,” she informs him. He protests but she’s off more quickly than his body will allow at the moment.

 

Sitting across from her at the kitchen island later, having been swatted away earlier, he tries again, “I wish you’d let me help; you really don’t have to do this.” _Shouldn’t_ he _be making_ her _breakfast? …Breakfast at the very least, at that._

 

She shrugs with one shoulder, the oversized button-down becoming lopsided. “It’s all right.” And then, with a smirk, “You can start making it up to me tomorrow if you truly insist.”

 

He smirks; she has read his mind, it seems… though he believes that she is only speaking of breakfast and perhaps the ride into the country, whereas what he has in mind goes much deeper, much further than that.

 

His thoughts nearly travel on then, but first her words replay in his head, and this time they truly sink in. _Tomorrow._ She has said _tomorrow._

 

This is the first implication she has given him of a tomorrow and beyond and his heart instantly swells at the thought. Because looking before him, watching as she concentrates on frying the eggs in his (in _their_ ) kitchen—her brow crinkling behind her glasses, her mussed, natural morning hair and the fact that she remains in only his flannel—after all this time, it all feels so surreal. But she’s _here._ She’s really, truly, here. Again. _And there will be a tomorrow for them…_

 

He blinks as tears begin to prick at his eyes. Now that she is here and has spoken of a tomorrow, the reality of the situation sinks in once more: he could have truly lost her for good. He _nearly_ lost her for good. This woman that is his absolute everything and that he loves more that he ever thought possible. And he knows that this is only the beginning, that before them lies a surely difficult road with ups and downs. But she has given him a second chance and he is determined to not disappoint, and as long as she’s ready to embark on the journey—and it seems as though she is—he has faith that they can make it together, tomorrow and beyond, as always. _Always._

 

***

 

She sees him watching her and as she looks into his eyes the raw emotion becomes evident. She understands it. All of this is emotional for her as well. The truth is, her love for him has never, not even through the worst of it, been a question. What she struggled with, however, was forgiveness and acceptance. But somewhere, somehow, as she went along and moved forward, she found that too, and _God_ , she is so grateful that she has. Because despite the hurt, and forgiveness or not, in her heart of hearts she knew she would love this man until her dying day.

 

But here he is before her now, looking at her with love and adoration in his own eyes as she simply fries eggs with no makeup and messy hair in a big ol’ flannel. And all of this won’t be as easy as this very moment or as this past night—she will feel more pain and there will inevitably be more tears. But they’re here together now, and suddenly everything feels _right_ again. There here together now, and they will endure. They’re here together now, and they’re here, she is sure, always. _Always._


End file.
